Symphony
by ThatClutzsarahh
Summary: He could play symphonies, no matter what his medium.


His fingers were soothing, soft. Gentle. Drifting over black and white piano keys, muscles tucked neatly underneath the skin, his fingers were magic tucked away from the eyes, working gently, smoothly on projects and piano keys. His touch was light, assuring and so possessively male that she shivered thinking about it. He knew, of course, because he was so very _male_, he knew what his touch would do, turn any woman into putty in an instant, and that was what made him _dangerous_ and off limits.

He could be obsessive. Obsessive is a major understatement in actuality. In truth, he could be more than obsessive, more than attentive and more than focused. She found him to work thoroughly, leaving no stone unturned in a case, no rock unchecked and no project in the lab left on. His dedication sent shivers down her spine, his focus, unfathomable in her mind. This concentration was so distinctly him, whether he was concentrating on letting go, letting his touch drift over keys or working the brain that he kept hidden away to let his father shine, whether he knew he consciously did that or not.

Today he played a symphony of strings, electrical wires and mind probes attached everywhere, _everywhere _and his fingers played with the wires gently, smoothly attaching them to the dead body like a bow would glide over the harmonious steel strings. The pads of his fingers brushed over her clothed covered arm as he gently slid by, each muscle of his body turning and moving gracefully like a dancer, like a musician, like _pureness. _She watched him work so _perfectly_, peacefully as she held her own arms tight against herself, watching. Waiting. He worked fluently, currently, like an ocean that flows smoothly over sand, his fingers worked like a glassblower's gently touching and lifting, making everything look effortless and simple. And he continued to play his beautiful fiddly of wires all day, even as night closed in.

When all was said and done and she headed for her place that night she looked over her shoulder at him, a daring glance, a _challenging_ glance that begged him to follow. His eyes played the glance in hers as only a musician _could,_ he played the challenge with his eyes, a dueling tone that was both a warning and a promise. In her silence she drove home. She didn't bother to lock the door, she knew he would follow her, he always would, and he just waited for the invitation. And she had given it to him, loud and clear in the form of her own pitiful melody that could not be nearly as beautiful as his own. She climbed into the shower and let the water brush her skin gently, sweepingly as if it were Peter's fingers that played the twinkling melody that the water sang on her skin.

It didn't take long for her to hear him come into the apartment. She had been under the spray of the soothing melodic water for ten minutes. The moment she heard the door shut she turned the water off and stepped out, wrapping a towel around herself. She was just about to reach for the door handle when it turned and opened, reviling Peter to her, stand there in his heavy coat and dark jeans, eyes staring at her. The gaze was intense, and she could not find the power in her to tear away from the green eyes that held her there, stock -still and wrapped in a towel. He didn't move from the door and she didn't move from her spot near the sink, both to lock in on each other.

She invited him to talk. She does it every night after a long day. It was talk and drinks and laughing and then he would leave after warning her to be careful and telling her goodnight. Their routine was simple, easy and modern. But lately she'd been dying, _dying_ to feel his touch just a moment longer, hold his eyes a second longer and be closer to him just a fraction of an inch. But she had never expected _this_ when the moment finally came. She never in her craziest fantasies had thought _this_ is what it felt like to be _under_ his gaze, scrunched up beneath his obsessive eyes. Standing there, he reached out his hand and she took it, mesmerized by him and he led her, silently, _knowingly_ to her bedroom.

He lay her down on the bed without a word and surprisingly, she _let_ him. Silently he reached for her drawer, knowing _exactly _where she kept her lotion and he pulled it out. She pushed his jacket from his shoulders, looking into his eyes directly, never looking away. He stared back, his fingers at the knot in the towel. When it fell away he never looked away from her face, and she felt her skin warm underneath his gaze. He pushed her down and rolled her over onto her stomach, allowing him access to her span of skin on her back. And she let him do this. She heard him with her lotion and then felt him, and it was the best feeling ever.

His fingers played the best symphony over her skin. Soft and wondrous and so male that she almost let a slight moan escape her lips. His fingers were warm, applying just the right amount of pressure that allowed her to _feel_ and really_ feel_ the muscles in his skin. She could almost see them move behind her shut eyelids. Starting at her neck, his fingers were inviting, opening up the muscles beneath them to play him a song, a soothing and gentle piece as he rolled his palm up and over her skin, working the knots away into the smooth lean muscle he so often fantasized about. Her cream skin turned into soft pudding beneath his fingers, and the lotion soothed it into silk that smelled so much like Olivia, he thought he may just pass out from pure ecstasy.

He moved his hands gracefully over the pads that where her shoulder blades, beautiful bone structures that allowed a graceful curve of her upper back, the skin stretching and flexing over the bone as it glided downward, past her spine, past her ass and stretching toward her delicate toes. His fingers touched every inch of her shoulders, working down the tops of her arms, twisting underneath, brushing gently, accidently, against her breast. His fingers tickled her sides as he moved down under her arms, thrumming along her ribs as if they were ivory piano keys. And she purred the most beautiful melody he'd ever heard, her gentle heartbeat fluttering out a temp, keeping a time that was much faster than his own, and she slowed it down, playing it to match his fingers. And he savored her addition. He cherished it.

.He moved his palms down her spine, the butts of them kneading into the backbone of the woman that held up his. In his hands it was so delicate, so fragile and small, a glass rose that held up her beautiful frame, walking tall and holding herself high. His fingers splayed over the smallest part of her waist and followed the widening curve of her hips as the skin stretched over the bones. He felt the muscles move, stretch and contract underneath the silk of her skin. He watched as his fingers played with each string of her muscles, loosening them with the tips of his calloused fingers. Her body nearly hummed underneath his attentions. His eyes wandered down to the small of her back and he worked there for a moment, the tiny dimples relaxing under his touch until he slid effortlessly over her butt, his fingers soft, silky and smooth. She squirmed underneath them and he held back the small chuckle that nearly escaped his lips.

He worked her thighs, strong and thick muscular structures that were built for running and holding her up. Two tree trunks, built of steel and diamond wrapped in silk and velvet were melting into liquid gold under his caresses as his fingers traced over her thighs, playing the rich tones that her thighs offered up to sing out as he ran his hands to the backs of her knees. He bent up a leg and ran his hand down it, his nose running along the calf, eyes fluttering closed and inhaling. Olivia was overwhelming to his senses, taking over his entire being and flushing out any impurities in his very soul. He kissed her ankle softly, gently, lips grazing her flesh like the silk that would graze her stomach on her shirts. His fingers trailed over the bottom of her foot and he moved back up her other leg, kissing the inside of her ankle again and dragging his face along the calf. When he reached her back and shoulders again he gently nudged her over and she complied, turning to face him.

He didn't let his eyes wander. Instead they held the lusty and unquestionable gaze of her green seas, two pools of unwavering water, filled to the brim like two green drums, perfectly sycronized to give the same beat each time. His fingers grazed down her neck, working the front of her shoulders in perfect continued time, never a pause of a missed beat. His thumbs rubbed small circles over her collarbone and his hands wandered lower, gently rubbing sweeping circles across her chest and under her breasts causing her arch off the bed. But he remained focused on her eyes, watching pupils dilate and contract, he felt her body heat up as he played the melody louder over certain patches of skin and softer over others. He felt her body heat under his touch, and as he massaged her hipbones from the front she let lose a quiet but quite gasp, perfectly in rhythm, time and tempo of his ministrations. He conducted her body like a master conducted a symphony of strings, horns and woodwinds. His fingers skimmed down her thighs and massaged the front of them, his fingers drifting intentionally to her inner thigh. He could feel her heat pouring down the inside of her legs and he tried to contain himself, restrain himself.

He traced his hand inside her thigh and she parted her legs with the lightest of finger nudges. He ran his hand down her most intimate spot, softly, gently, causing her to squirm and twist, her whole torso a rippling effect of perfect muscle as it twisted as graceful as a dancer. He rubbed his hand across her again and she gasped her appreciation, beautiful music to his ears. He didn't want to cover any sound she made. She was the perfect melody to his harmony and their rhythm. With a finger he part her and slid inside in a single motion, smooth graceful and perfect enough to have move her arms to clench her hands around his wrist as if to hold him there. Her eyes flicked to his and her lips begged, _begged_ for him to kiss her. And there was no way he could refuse that plea, that pull. He crawled back up her body and kissed her soundly on the mouth

And that was the sweetest symphony he could have ever imagined. Her tongue dueled with his like a major chord battles the onslaught of minors, making the sweetest noises from the chaos inside. She laced her fingers in his hair and pressed her skin against his clothing, lining up at every point perfectly, two imperfect jigsaw pieces in perfect connection. He brought his hands to stroke her silky strands as she moved her lips down his neck in a perfect trail of gentle snare taps, a peck here, a bite there, her fingers undoing the buttons on his shirt in such ease it didn't startle him when his shirt was gone. He remained with his face buried in her neck, inhaling the sweet scent he had brushed there, feeling her skin heat under his breath and he touched her back, each finger playing one key at a time along her spine. The piano melody sung out as she removed his belt, the black leather gone, and undid his pants. He allowed himself to go hard for her now, thinking of all the possible places he could hide himself on her skin, all the possible notes her voice could reach from his conduction.

She shucked away his jeans and briefs, rolling him over to kiss him on her terms. He held her there on his chest, just reveling in the feel of her being so close and silky. He wrapped his arms around her tiny waist and pinned her to his skin, skin on skin contact. He liked the feeling, it was so much better than any feeling ever. When he felt her kiss growing impatient, he broke it and rolled her under him, his arms cradling her shoulders and his mouth took in one breast at a time, bending to her arch and pinning her closer. She parted her legs from him and he pulled himself up to be in position before gently and beautiful entering her tiny body, engulfing her in his own score, writing a master piece that the world would never comprehend, a melody to be played by them only.

If she were a dancer, the whole audience would have died from forgetting to breathe. Her movements were beautiful underneath him, and he wanted nothing but to watch her meet him stride for stride, to be the brush to his painting, adding color and detail to the canvas screen. He kissed her like there was no tomorrow, like the end was coming for today and today only. She traced butterfly wings on his back with feathers of hands, tickling his skin until he could no longer stand it and shift just perfectly within her, allowing for her gasp to be let in the air. And he moved like that again and she gasped again, louder this time, crescendo-ing with each movement.

And when she finally came, pulling his from him, he found himself completely unsatisfied. He watched a beautiful woman wriggle underneath him like waves that wriggle in the ocean and he felt completely unfulfilled. There was something missing. There was something wrong. The end of his delicate piece was completely wrong. He didn't know why. Blinking, and blinking again he tried to put the reasons behind his failed attempt at a finish, but he felt lost. And when she smiled at him and went to speak, she faded away from him, a vision long lost into darkness. He knew the reasons, somewhere in his mind, but he didn't want to believe them, didn't want to touch them. For now, in this piece, Olivia was his, forever and ever. Olivia was his just as much as he was hers. But the ending would always be incomplete. Not even his most vivid dreams could ever compare to reality and yet he felt angry each time they failed to measure up. Just like now. This melody was a dream, in his mind and nonexistent anywhere else.

Peter awoke from his stupor state at the piano bench to see that somehow, his melody had written itself.


End file.
